You could say that five-year-old Philomena was a per-fec-tion-ist. That long word means that she wanted everything to be perfect. Her little room was not only tidy, but impeccably clean. Sometimes, Philomena even measured whether her shoes were spaced exactly evenly on the shelves at the bottom of her wardrobe.
Every morning and every evening she carefully smoothed out all the creases in her duvet. When she ate, she was meticulous too – she kept everything neatly separate on her plate, and when she had finished eating, the plate was always perfectly clean. Even when she walked, she took very careful, measured steps.
Her little brother Robin was four years old, but you wouldn’t know they were siblings! Robin was noisy, messy, and all his things, especially his shoes, were always in a heap. He left one sock in the hallway and the other in the living room. And he was always dashing noisily from room to room.
His little bedroom looked like a bomb had exploded in it – and don’t even ask how he ate! Not nearly all the food on his plate made it to his mouth. He was so noisy and bothersome that it drove Philomena ex-cep-tion-ally mad.
One rainy Saturday, they had both stayed indoors. Philomena was neatly folding her dolls’ clothes when Robin’s car crashed into the neat pile she had made, scattering the little outfits across the floor.
“Enough is enough!” cried Philomena. “I’m going to make myself a special place all of my own that’s nice and tidy! I’m going to build a den! Just for me!”
“Can I help you?” asked Robin. “I’m pretty good at building dens.”
“No you’re not, all you’re good at is making a mess,” Philomena snapped at him, and went…
